A Love Letter To Sadists From A Masochist Who CRAVES Their Painful Touch

At night, you dream of screaming girls and quivering legs, of red marks and wet c*nts. When you’re alone in bed, giving yourself pleasure, you see the whip in your hand tearing into your victim’s flesh.

When you daydream, you imagine tying her to a tree in that wood behind your house and flogging her until she cries, only to drag her back to the house by her hair and f*ck her senseless.

When she starts bucking and resisting, you tell her that she needs it, that she can’t escape from it.

In her eyes, you can see her say, “F*ck you,” even though she remains as still as she can. You continue, slow and steady, unrelenting, until she gives in to you again, the last of her resistance draining away in the rhythm of the paddle against her ass. You pause for a moment, stroke her cheek softly, wipe a tear away.

When her body is covered in sweat, her c*nt soaked and filling the room with its scent, her throat raw with screaming, her knees buckling more and more often, when you know she is about as far as you can take her, you push her just a little bit more — not for you, but to show her just how strong and resilient she is.

You give her another “good girl” as you run your hands over her reddened skin, telling her that it’s all over, that she’s done well, that you’re proud of her.

And when you take her bindings off and bring her back down to earth, when she is at her most open and vulnerable, you cradle her in your arms and wrap your love around her, your love that comes from the beauty of her pain, from the strength of her mind, from the offering of her body.